


brittle

by Anonymous



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eating Disorders, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Set during S1, brief appearances by beverly katz jack crawford and the science team, will graham has an eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24966364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There’s no distinguishable starting point—no date he can circle on a calendar and say, “This is when it began.” It came on slowly, the way the changing of the tide isn’t felt until it has reached its extremity, a subtle slip and fall and clutch for stability.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 82
Collections: Anonymous





	brittle

**Author's Note:**

> If you're triggered by disordered eating, I highly encourage you not to read! I've been struggling with my own ED recently and wrote this more or less as a form of catharsis, from someone who is definitely not recovered.

Will Graham’s refrigerator currently holds one small package of deli meat, one half-bag of wilted salad greens, a tupperware container filled with tomato soup, and several individually-wrapped sticks of string cheese. This is, of course, in addition to a small assortment of odds and ends: a stick of butter, some mayonnaise that is likely well past its prime, three eggs nestled in a long-forgotten carton pressed up against the back wall. He’s got a couple of things in the pantry—a few protein bars and a box of stale cereal, some cans of soup and instant meals—but by normal standards, his food supply is sorely lacking.

Will opens his refrigerator.

Closes it again.

He rubs his hand over his stomach and goes to bed.

\---

There’s no distinguishable starting point—no date he can circle on a calendar and say, “This is when it began.” It came on slowly, the way the changing of the tide isn’t felt until it has reached its extremity, a subtle slip and fall and clutch for stability.

In fairness, he’s never had a normal relationship with food. Even if his father hadn’t been negligent—gone more than he was home and never really invested even when he was—he was a terrible cook, and their pockets weren’t deep enough to support anything  _ gourmet _ . Will grew up accustomed to the hollow pang of hunger. The way a stomach felt filled mostly with water: heavy and empty and cold.

It could be called regression, he thinks. A search for the simplicity of his childhood (though it was never simple, really, was it? It was lonely and hard and uncomfortable, something happily grown out of and handed down to the next recipient), a reversion to one of his earlier states of being. When this thing inside of himself was no more than a flicker, a flame. A shadow on the wall, terrifying but easily locked away.

It’s not like that now.

He feels himself slipping. Each new case—each time he looks—is like a fist clenching around something in his stomach, hitching it just a little higher than it was before. He keeps his mouth clenched tight but it’s inevitable, really; his madness is going to come out. He can feel it with startling certainty, the way a child, despite their reluctance, can feel stomach acid rising in the back of their throat. Knows they’ll be sick eventually, no matter how long they put it off.

Will is exhausted.

Will is terrified.

Will closes his eyes at night and can’t help but see Hobbs drenched in blood, a stag pawing at the earth, himself impaling Marissa Schurr on the heavy prongs of antlers.

When he wakes, he soothes his stomach with black coffee. Wrestles his hunger into submission.

It’s one of the only things he seems to have a handle on anymore.

\---

It’s easier to get away with for someone like him. There’s no partner or parent whose watchful eye he has to fool, no close friends whose dinner invitations he has to demur. He skips breakfast, picks lightly at lunch, eats a small dinner. Jack’s too concerned with catching killers to scrutinize Will’s dietary habits. His mental health, which Jack has always been quick to call out as a liability, seems to matter less and less with every case Will manages to close. Beverly looks at him sometimes with what can be called concern, but she knows better than to corner him about it. And Dr. Lecter—well, they have enough to talk about as it is.

There’s a small, ugly part of him that resents that—that almost  _ wants _ to be found out. A garden-variety mental illness, instead of whatever this dark thing is burgeoning inside him. Starving yourself is a little more palatable than itching to once again feel the power, the vindication, that came with pulling the trigger, even if it was on someone who deserved it. Easier to cure than the flash of intrigue that came along with seeing a dead man’s throat played like a cello.

But if he’s being honest, he  _ doesn’t _ want to be discovered. Not really. Doesn’t want to give up this one thing he can control, this one way he can fight his body and mind into obedience.

So it worries him when people start to take notice. He’s on his way to a crime scene the first time it happens—rides there with Jack, who has already parked the car and is up and out of his seat before Will’s finished unbuckling himself. When he slides out to join him, the world sways. Blackness blooms before his eyes, and he has to put a hand on the side of the SUV to steady himself.

“Will?”

His head is spinning, but he forces a tight-lipped smile. Jack’s gaze bores into the side of his skull, voice restrained with a dangerous sort of concern.

“I’m fine. Just—stood up too fast.”

Thankfully, Jack only grunts, slamming his door shut. “You better be. I’m gonna need you at your best for this one.”

He’s on his way toward the yellow and black tape by the time Will has managed to blink his way back to steadiness.

\---

It becomes an obsession. The more he thinks about food the less he has to think about himself. The more he manages to control what he eats, the more together he feels. But it’s not all good—he’s losing the small pouch of his stomach, and some of his muscle tone, too. His clothes hang a little looser—which could, conceivably, be attributed to stress—and is even more exhausted all the time, which he’d thought nearly impossible. He’s cold and irritable and  _ still thinking about killing _ , still hallucinating, still waking up in places he knows he didn’t go to sleep.

The team has started to look at him differently. Will knows it’s not  _ this _ , not exactly—his deterioration feels visible, like the crumbling facade of some dilapidated farmhouse. Every day he loses another shingle. His walls sag inward a little more. They don’t know about the food stuff, just the broad black mess that is the tangle of Will’s  _ issues _ . It’s like they can see it bleeding out of him, wrapping around his head like some sick halo.

He feels like he’s balancing on the edge of a precipice, hanging out further and further over some giant void that’s just waiting to swallow him whole. All cliffs will be eroded in time, he thinks, palming the arms of Hannibal’s green leather chairs. He wonders how much longer he can resist it.

“You seem disturbed, Will.” Hannibal is watching him with that veneer of impassivity he’s grown so accustomed to, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap. “Is something on your mind?”

Will laughs—a low, colorless thing, like dry leaves kicked up by an autumn wind. “There’s always something on my mind,” he mutters, turning his face away in some unsubtle search for privacy. He feels both heavy and light, as though he is apart from himself. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Very well. Is there something on your mind other than your current involvement with the FBI, and the issues you’ve faced therein?”

Will gnaws on his cheek. His stomach gurgles, and he darts a quick glance over at Hannibal like a child caught misbehaving. But the doctor only looks placidly on, brows raised in anticipation of Will’s reply.

He huffs out a sharp breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I feel like stability is no more than a distant dream—intangible. Unreachable. My boat has come untethered from its dock.”

“Then you must throw out a heaving line.”

“Kind of hard to throw a heaving line when you’re already in the middle of the ocean.”

Hannibal glances down briefly, lips pulling back in the minute semblance of a frown. “You feel your issues to be insurmountable. That you have no way of returning to your moorings.”

“Jack told me it seems like the looking has gotten  _ easier _ .” He can’t help the bite to his words, the disdain that drips from his tongue.

“Do you disagree?”

_ Yes.  _ “I don’t know what to think.”

“Jack has failed to support you in the ways he has promised; he has left you to seek control in other ways.”

Will bristles, and something hot drops down into his stomach. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He has forced you into the field. You have forced yourself to look, and it has irreversibly penetrated your mind. All things outside your realm of control; it is only natural that you should seek to seize some semblance of it in whatever way you can.”

Will is glaring at the wall, resolutely not meeting Hannibal’s gaze. He feels exposed, and his heart thrums rapidly in his chest, stomach clenching around itself. He has no response, and clenches his jaw instead, but Hannibal doesn’t press.

When Will leaves, Hannibal hands him a small grey and white container.

“Regrettably, the guest for whom this dish was intended proved to be vegetarian.” As Will’s fingers tighten around the plastic and ceramic with something akin to panic, he adds: “Seeing as your schedule likely affords you little time to cook, I thought you might appreciate it in his stead.”

Throat tight, Will nods jerkily.

He eats half of it when he gets home and feeds the rest to his dogs.

\---

The winter chill is harder to shake off when your body’s too busy conserving energy to keep itself warm. Will dresses in layers, flannels under sweaters under his winter coat, takes to wearing a scarf to class in the mornings and a hat and gloves whenever he’ll be outside for longer than it takes to journey from building to car. He’s used to discomfort, so it’s not really something he can’t tolerate, but it’s another annoyance, another nuisance added to a list so long he feels he’s drowning in it.

“You’re sure you don’t want anything?” Beverly asks again, leveling Will with a considering look as she swipes a sausage sandwich from the grab-and-go section. “It’s a long drive.”

His stomach turns at the thought, and he shakes his head.

“Hey, are you feeling all right?”

Will stuffs his hands into his pockets. Pretends to study the various boxes of sugarfree gum and mints lined up neatly on the white metal display. “Fine. Just—a cold or something.”

There’s a tense moment where he thinks she’s going to press the issue, eyes combing over his tightly buttoned coat, the dark circles underscoring his eyes. But in the end, she just lets out a breath and snags a paper sleeve of tater tots and a cup of fruit, and tells him in no uncertain terms that if he’s hungry, he’s welcome to help himself to any of it.

He ends up pilfering a few pieces of cantaloupe, mostly as a peace offering, but also because he knows Hannibal will be joining them, and he wants to be able to say with confidence that he did have breakfast, in case he’s asked. He’s also feeling a little queasy, and knows that sometimes it’s better to get some sugar in him before he lets the feeling go too far.

By the time they get to the crime scene, he’s wishing he’d taken more. He feels sick, sluggish. Like he’s walking through water. The stag follows him, looming just out of sight and several paces behind, but Will can feel his presence like needles on the back of his neck. He scrubs at it, rubbing until he can feel his skin reddening under his touch, but the dull pain does nothing to clear his head. He pinches instead at the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes and tries to will away the headache and clammy heat forming beneath his collar.

He can feel Hannibal approaching, can hear the subtle crunch of his feet over frozen leaves, and when he opens his eyes, the doctor is standing in front of him, concern pinching his features.

“Headache,” he says, hoping to stave off any questions, and then Jack is striding purposefully toward them, conveniently closing any chance at further conversation.

Will never quite manages to get a handle on himself—he waves off Beverly’s concern and tries not to balk under Jack’s heavy eye, but dragging himself out of the killer’s mindset is difficult. Leaves him feeling shaky and unsettled. He’s sweating too, shirt sticking to his underarms and the small of his back. He drags the back of his hand across his forehead and blows out a breath.

Jack isn’t happy with him, and Zeller keeps shooting him looks that manage to be both distasteful and oddly concerned. Hannibal hovers just behind, keeping mostly quiet except for the occasional tidbit of insight, but Will can feel his gaze like a spotlight. It quickens his already racing pulse—he just wants to sit down for a minute, to get his bearings and wait for the tide of nausea to recede. He  _ should _ just say he’s not feeling well, that he’s going to run back to the car for some water and see if there’s anything left from Beverly’s breakfast buffet, but it’s taking most of his focus to remain upright.

“ _ Will _ .” Jack’s tone suggests this isn’t the first time he’s called his name—low and firm, like he’s giving commands to a particularly obstinate dog.

Will’s mouth floods with saliva. He swallows, dizzy, and tries not to look at Garret Jacob Hobbs where he stands off to the side. “Sorry,” he mumbles, breathing in deeply through his nose. Everyone is staring at him now—Jack’s mouth is tight with displeasure, and even Price is frowning, hands stilling on his camera. “S-Sorry, I just—”

His knees buckle but he catches himself, blinking furiously as he tries to dispel the black that’s crowding his vision. He thinks he might be sick, and everything feels oddly distant, like he’s floating above it.

Will stumbles back a step, and Jack’s mouth parts. He reaches a hand out toward Will but he’s too far away—

Then, suddenly, there’s a firm pressure at his waist, another just under his arm. The pressure of a body against his back.

“Will.”

It’s Hannibal’s voice—Hannibal’s hands supporting him. Will tries to lift his weight from them but finds he can’t seem to hold himself upright on his own, so instead he focuses on not vomiting. Hannibal is saying something to Jack, but Will tunes them out, allowing Hannibal to carefully duck beneath his arm and help him walk on shaky legs to a tree just far enough away from the cluster of agents to afford them some privacy. He helps Will sit against it, and crouches down beside him.

Sitting is easier—his head is still spinning, but he can stave off the imminent darkness, and manages to get his stomach back under control. When he looks up at Hannibal, he still feels clammy, hands trembling, but his face is hot with embarrassment.

“God—I’m sorry, I don’t— I haven’t been feeling well, and I—”

“When did you eat last?” Hannibal’s expression is somber, his mouth set with an emotion Will can’t quite identify. He speaks quietly enough that there’s no chance of the others overhearing, and even if they did, it’s innocuous enough—Will frequently forgets to eat, especially when he’s as wrapped up in cases as he is now—but he can’t help but dart a quick glance back toward Jack and the others. “Will.”

“I—This morning. I had—some fruit.” It sounds weak, even to his own ears.

Hannibal doesn’t frown, but Will can sense the expression in the minute twitch of his lips. “Wait here, please.”

Will watches him walk quickly over to the cars and buries his head in his hands. He feels like a child—like he can’t be trusted with even this most simple of needs. Chastened and found out and out of control again—he’s furious at his body for betraying him yet again, for rebelling against even this most base of requests. He knots his fingers in his curls and tugs, letting the gentle pain ground him.

“Drink this.”

He looks up; Hannibal is passing him a glass water bottle full of something that looks suspiciously like orange juice. In his other hand, he has a small container with grapes and some kind of bread smeared with nut butter.

Will doesn’t want any—panic jumps in his stomach. The nut butter in particular has his breath hitching in his throat. He can feel it, thick and sticky, in the back of his throat.

But Hannibal is staring at him, expression unreadable. He can feel someone else’s attention on them too, though he doesn’t look up to see if it’s one of the local police force or an FBI agent.

If he refuses, he’ll only make himself more obvious.

Jaw clenching, Will pulls the juice from Hannibal’s hand. He flips open the plastic top and drinks, small and slow. It’s sweet and tart, flooding his mouth with flavor.

“I pressed it myself last night,” Hannibal says quietly, as though he can sense Will’s need for distraction. Gracefully, he lowers himself to sit beside Will, holding the plastic container in his lap. He reaches in and plucks a grape from the vine, popping it into his mouth like it’s no trouble at all. Like he doesn’t even have to think about it. “When I brought this, I’d intended it to be something small should we be detained longer than expected. I’m quite thankful now to have had that foresight.”

Will doesn’t comment on the obvious lie, but he’s grateful for it. His chest loosens a little, and he takes another sip of the juice.

When Hannibal passes him a grape, he eats it, and gets a shadow of a smile in return.

\---

Hannibal insists on driving him back. Will is certain Jack pushed back against it, both because that’s just how Jack is  _ and _ because Hannibal was gone for the span of several long minutes after he made this pronouncement to Will. When he returns, his face is blank, but Will can read his irritation in the tightness of his eyes, the set of his mouth.

“I’m really fine,” he tries again, as Hannibal reaches down to help him up off the ground. “I’m, ah, feeling a lot better.”

“You will forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Hannibal replies. He doesn’t let go of Will’s arm after he stands, but holds onto his bicep just as tightly, as though he’s afraid Will’s legs will fold at any moment—like he’s a newborn foal still learning to walk.

Which is, he supposes, kind of fair considering.

Hannibal maintains his hold all the way to the car, and keeps their pace slow, steady. Will’s face is hot with embarrassment; he studiously avoids the eyes he feels on him, trying to swallow back the burning in his throat and accompanying blur to his vision. He feels like a child.

When Hannibal helps him to sit in the passenger seat, he immediately reclines it, despite Will’s protests. He roots around in the trunk, too, before coming back around to Will’s side, and hands him a bottle of water and a small container of what appear to be pistachios. Will thanks him without meeting his gaze.

He stares resolutely at the dashboard from the moment Hannibal closes his door and comes around to the driver’s side to the time they pull out of the parking lot and onto the road. Hannibal lets him be for a moment, for which Will is grateful, but the reprieve only lasts so long.

“I believe I have done you a misservice by neglecting to broach this topic before today.”

Will scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing hard. “Can we just—” He cuts himself off, exhaling hard. “I’m just—tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

Hannibal looks over at him reproachfully, and Will flushes.

“Will.”

“Please,” he says, before Hannibal can begin an impromptu therapy session here in the car. To his utter horror, his eyes are welling up again, and he fiddles manically with the water bottle to try to spill out some of his nervous energy. “Please, I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hannibal is silent for a moment, while Will focuses on not letting his tears spill out from between his lashes. He can barely make out the details of the car behind the blurring of his vision.

A hand covers his own, stilling their motion. Will takes a shuddering breath, drawing strength from the contact, and blinks to clear his vision.

“There is no shame in mental illness,” Hannibal says quietly.

Will’s mouth twitches, unsure if it means to form a smile.

“I would like to help you.”

Panic returns—a posthumous flare—and Will tries to pull away. But Hannibal presses hard, quieting Will’s wordless protestations. Once he stills, Hannibal rubs his thumb slowly over the back of Will’s hand.

It’s embarrassing, how comforting he finds just that small motion.

“You needn’t tell anyone,” he says, gaze fixed now on the road, as though he can sense that Will can’t bear both his attention and his touch. “It will remain solely between us. Small steps—we will direct your need for control elsewhere, toward more productive outlets.”

Fear is an ocean inside him—he feels full with it, like there isn’t room for anything else. But he’s felt that way for a while, now, and starving himself does little more than allow him to keep his head above the water. He brings his other hand atop Hannibal’s, closing his fingers around it.

Will takes a breath. Works his jaw.

“I trust you,” he admits, and looks up at Hannibal. “I—I want your help. I can’t promise I always will, or—or that I won’t slip up, but I—” He breathes out again, and Hannibal’s grip tightens. “This isn’t sustainable.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “It is not. You are very brave, Will, to admit that.”

Will smiles—a small, lopsided thing—and Hannibal matches it, lips pulling up ever so slightly as he glances over.

“You should get some rest,” he says as he turns back to look at the road. “I do believe you when you say you’ve experienced difficulty sleeping.”

“Okay,” Will says. He remains still for a moment, before cracking open the lid of the water bottle and taking a long swig.

After some consideration, he peels the plastic lid off the container and eats a handful of pistachios, slow and careful, trying not to count.

Though Hannibal doesn’t look at him, Will can feel his smile.

He sets the water bottle in the cupholder, and places the container in the small pocket on the passenger-side door.

When he leans back and closes his eyes, safe and light with burgeoning hope, sleep comes faster than it has in a long time.


End file.
